


Budding Anger

by Chatika (salamanderssmile)



Series: In fide aeternam [7]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Family Issues, Fist Fights, Implied Sexual Content, Investigations, M/M, the gang's getting together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 20:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16794223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/Chatika
Summary: A terrible fate befalls Gough, Ornstein investigates the crime, Faraam analyzes the army. Velka is there.





	Budding Anger

**Author's Note:**

> ho ho ho, it's finally here.  
> sorry it took ages to get it going. hope you guys like it. as compensation, im gonna do some prompts (whatever you guys ask over at my writing tumblr, @cinderpoppy).  
> happy incoming holidays for everyone!

Ornstein stood there, stony and still, outside grand doors that lead to the throne room. From where he was, shouting could be heard, muffled by thick stone, angrily reverberating off the walls. It was Faraam and his father again, of course, yelling about something or another. As of late, all of their talks ended in angry staredowns or shouting matches. Ornstein was tired of it all, as it was not unusual for him to be pulled into the arguments as a mediator. It was exhausting, bothersome, and left him upset for hours after. Not that Faraam was any better; in fact, he seemed worse for wear every time it happened, as if he was fraying at the edges. This time it was no different, as the Prince stormed off the room with heavy and hurried steps that Ornstein struggled to keep up with, almost having to run after him.

They didn't stop until they reached the garden balcony Faraam loved so. The braid of long platinum hair fell down his back in a glossy cascade under the late afternoon sun. Ornstein stood behind him for long minutes before finally stepping forward, reaching for the Prince’s shoulder with his gloved hand. The taller man tensed before immediately relaxing, resting his own hand over Ornstein’s after a moment. He gently drew circles on the brown leather with his thumb, a nervous motion his knight knew was more to soothe the Prince himself than anything. He heard Faraam take a deep, shaky breath before he turned around, letting Ornstein’s hand travel from his shoulder to his cheek, where Faraam personally felt like it belonged. 

“He doth love me no longer.” The Prince whispered, eyes closed and brows drawn as if in pain. “I truly believe he might loathe me, instead.”

“His Lordship?” Ornstein’s voice was no louder, gentle as could be.

“Yes, my  _ father _ .” The corner of Faraam’s mouth pulled downwards, though in disgust or misery, his knight couldn't tell.

“Wherefore dost thou say such?” Ornstein asked, though he received no answer in turn. “Thy sire hath been… difficult, yes, but… Loathe thee? My Lord, wherefore would He?”

“I know not, Ornstein. Because I do not agree with his every word?” Faraam sighed deeply, opening his eyes, though he looked at the ground and not Ornstein’s face. “Mayhap he hath tired of me, and desireth me gone as all he wisheth no longer.”

Not knowing what to say, but keenly feeling for his beloved, the knight simply stepped forward, enveloping the Prince in a hug, resting his head against the Lord’s chest. He felt Faraam’s breath on his hair, his lips laying soft kisses. Ornstein was most comfortable like that, when the world seemed to stop and they, too, stilled, only their breaths any sign time passed on. It was a mildly incriminating scene, the two of them embracing under the setting sun, but for one moment, Ornstein didn't bother to care. Faraam’s heart beat a steady rhythm beneath his ear, lulling him into a state of peace as he tried to impart the warmth he felt to his Prince. Ornstein knew he was too far gone down the rabbit hole to ever claw out, but he cherished the feeling, for once.

After a long moment, the Prince stepped back, lines on his face smoothed over. He looked around to see no one before kissing his knight, a chaste meeting of lips to share in the comfort of each other’ company.

“We must leave now.” Another kiss. “Shall we meet at dinner?”

“Certainly.” Ornstein smiled before drawing a deep breath and taking one of the Prince’s hands in his, looking him in the eye as he said: “Know’st thou that I shall always love thee.”

“As I love thee, as well. Eternally.” Faraam’s voice was soft as they both smiled before walking out of the balcony and parting ways.

Dinner was a feast as usual, hall filled with the court of the Lord of Sunlight. Ornstein, as the first knight of the God of War, had a sit near the royal family’s table. Near enough he could clearly hear their conversations, or lack thereof. Gwynevere seemed sad as she pushed her food around her plate, Faraam was stony and silent, usual mirth turned a cold void of emotions as Gwyn seemingly ignored him, standing as proud as ever. The only one seemingly unaffected by the heavy atmosphere was Gwyndolin, who blinked curious blue eyes at his family, looking through them with an expression of someone who knew too much. Gwyndolin was, as his siblings, a personification of his domain: mysterious and inscrutable as the moon, filled with magic as the moonlight, beauty hiding a form most found grotesque. Ornstein thought of his scars, and the compliments he used to receive so often, and thought that he and the younger son of Gwyn might have something in common.

It was halfway through dinner that Faraam rose to his feet and left, drawing nothing but a few curious looks. Gwyn seemed undisturbed, continuing on eating his meal as if nothing had happened. Ornstein waited, patiently giving time to time, for an opportune moment to follow; though all already knew of his devotion to the Prince of Sunlight, and expected him to be at Faraam’s side at all times. Still, Ornstein had his pride, and he would not be seen as a lap dog. Not only that, with his relationship with his son strained as it was, Gwyn was prone to fits of jealousy over him, as he was supposedly a knight to both of them. Ornstein would rather keep a lid on the foul moods of the Lord of Sunlight, lest he and Faraam get into yet another fight. It was not long into his wait that the knight felt eyes on him, looking up to see Gwyndolin staring intently at him, seemingly seeing through him. He blinked owlishly back, and the Dark Sun cocked his head to the side in a curious gesture. Ornstein realized the younger brother was also waiting for him to leave, expecting him to follow the eldest.

With precise movements, Ornstein stood up, bowing before the Lord of Sunlight’s gaze before starting his walk to the garden balcony. The air outside was cool and soothing, smelling of greenery. It was a gentler environment than the noisy hall, the quiet moonlit garden. The knight walked slowly through it, enjoying the calm, expecting to see wild platinum locks around any corner. Faraam always looked almost ethereal in the moonlight, skin and pale hair glowing silver. Ornstein was lost in thought when he reached the railing and saw no one. Puzzled, he looked around as if to confirm the balcony was indeed empty save for him. Odd, he thought as he leaned against the railing, looking at the moonlight, he had been certain Faraam would be waiting for him there. 

“Dost thou search for thy Prince?” He heard a voice behind say, causing him to turn around abruptly. “I am afraid I have already set him to run.”

“Lady Velka.” Ornstein bowed his head as he greeted the Goddess of Sin. Her black hair fell as a veil down her back, black dress exposing her equally dark shoulders. “Indeed I search for His Grace, the Prince of Sunlight. Thou hast seen him, then?”

She nodded once, slowly, blinking sparkling black eyes in amusement. “Thy devotion is sweet to my heart, Lion Knight.”

“I have sworn my life to him, such is my oath.” Ornstein replied, stoic as always. Their secret would be safe with him.

“Yes, thy most sacred oath. A grand story to be told, of War and his dragonslayer.” She smiled, something almost sly. “It is only right that thou must follow his steps.”

“Indeed.” He blinked, quietly waiting for her to continue.

“Then I shall reveal to thee two things, knight.” Velka started, raising her hand and putting up a finger. “One is that thy beloved Prince hath left for his chambers.” Ornstein nodded, grateful, but continued waiting for her to finish. “And two is that betrayal, child, is a sin borne of trust. Thou should’st learn to fear all those who fear thee not.”

The knight’s eyebrows drew nearer in the semblance of a frown as she lowered her hand once more. Her “advice” was most unsettling, and he lowered his gaze, unable to keep looking at those amused black eyes any longer. It was as if she saw through him, his every feeling laid bare. It was an uncomfortable form of vulnerability, and he resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze. Her words felt as a glacier of ice to his besotted heart. He couldn't fathom a world where he did not trust Faraam, and it seemed as if she knew, and knew exactly the extent of why. Ornstein understood, then, why the Prince had left without him; Velka’s company was more than enough to make him want to run away as well.

“I see thee often. I wonder what sins have befallen thee, child.” Looking at her feet, he saw and heard the rustling of her dress as she turned and walked away, leaving him confused, afraid and alone.

After a moment of breathing and looking at the ground, Ornstein left with hurried steps, walking the winding path he always took to Faraam’s chambers. The many deserted halls and corridors on the way left him with too much time to think on the Goddess’s words, leaving the feeling of a pit forming in his stomach. He yearned for a distraction, for something to ground him. His heart was racing when he reached the big double doors to the Prince’s room. He knocked once, though the silence made him worry further, to the point he cracked open the door to at least look inside. Faraam was there, as he had been informed he would, sitting on his bed, looking at his hands; then at the door with accusing eyes before he saw who was there. His gaze softened as he nodded to Ornstein, silently inviting him to go in. The knight slid in through the small space he had opened, closing the door behind him.

“What shadow cast itself upon thy heart, my love?” Faraam asked as Ornstein walked over to the bed, sitting by him.

“I could ask the same of thee, could I not?” The knight said, blinking slowly up at the Prince.

“She found thee as well, then?” Faraam drew closer, resting his forehead against his knight’s.

“Hmm, yes.” Ornstein answered before kissing the Prince, and feeling as if all his worry slowly melted away.

The kiss was soft, though enough to make his lips tingle. His hands found the Prince’s shoulders, travelling up his neck to cup his cheeks. Faraam’s own hands rested on the knight’s hips, and without either bracing their weight, soon they were tipping sideways onto the bed, laughing as they hit the mattress. Ornstein laid a single kiss on the tip of the Prince’s nose before rolling them so he was on top. In turn, Faraam lazily stretched beneath the knight, own arms resting over his blonde hair spread on the bed. Ornstein settled down, laying atop the Prince, eyes blinking slowly as he watched the other’s face. Instead of shying away under the scrutiny, Faraam’s smile only grew crooked and mischievous as he started lifting his arms, only to pull Ornstein closer. The knight allowed it, closing his eyes as he rested his head on the Prince’s chest, their legs tangled together, and Velka’s words momentarily forgotten.

Ornstein felt as a lazy cat, sprawled on top of Faraam, the Prince’s hands carding through his hair and down his back. He allowed himself to not think, only absorb the essence of the moment, the peace he felt. Though far from his mind, what Velka had said spurred a sense of urgency in him, as though something great and terribly painful loomed on the horizon. That feeling, try as he might, he could not shake off his heart. But the comfort his Prince’s presence instilled on him was enough for balance, and he let himself go as far as he could. Ornstein wondered if he had ever felt as though he belonged as much as he did with Faraam. He didn't think he had.

“We should rest, my love.” Ornstein heard the implicit, hopeful question behind those words:  _ “Wilt thou stay?” _

“Mayhap, Faraam.” It was as much a double layered sentence as the Prince’s. “Do we have pending matters?”

“ _ Mayhap _ , Ornstein.” Faraam teased back, one of his arms pulling Ornstein even closer by the waist. “Would it be of thy liking if we did?”

“I think…” Ornstein started, pushing himself up on the Prince’s chest, batting long eyelashes at him as he held his breath in anticipation. “... I would.”

The Prince smiled wide as his knight dipped his head forward to kiss him on the lips. If it depended on him, it would be a long night.

Faraam woke up to an empty bed and emptier room. He was used to it. Ornstein always woke up long before dawn, and would be waiting for him right outside his chambers’ doors, freshly washed and standing guard. The sun was barely over the horizon as the Prince threw his legs over the side of the bed, carding his fingers through his wild hair in a futile attempt to tame it. He was late, if only by minutes, to breakfast with his father. The very thought of Gwyn put a damper on his satisfied mood. Thinking of his father caused a bubbling pain in his chest he couldn't stifle. Lately, all they had done was yell at each other, angrily arguing about the - despicable, in Faraam’s opinion - state of the army. Or really anything that so happened to be a subject. Faraam had tired of hearing his father berate him for being too close to his knight. The Prince suppressed a giggle; if only his father knew.

Faraam hurried through washing himself and putting on clothes, desperately trying to brush through his hair only to give up and tie it instead. He never did quite as good a job at it as Ornstein, but it would do. When he deemed himself presentable, he left his chambers with a confident stride that stopped dead in its tracks as he saw what was outside. Or better, what wasn't, as he couldn't see Ornstein anywhere. It wasn't like the knight to not be present; like clockwork, he was never late. Worried and confused, the Prince continued on his way to the great hall where his father would undoubtedly be waiting for him, already upset. He paid no mind to the servants and Silver Knights on the way, thoughts consumed with figuring out where his own knight could have gone. Of course, find what you seek in the last place you search, Ornstein stood, wearing an impressive glower, in front of the table behind which the Lord of Sunlight sat, seemingly just done with a report.

“Lord, my father.” Faraam started, bowing his head before the aforementioned god, both already frowning. “Sir Ornstein, it is a surprise to see thee here.”

“My Lord.” The coldness of Ornstein’s voice sent shivers down Faraam’s spine.

“My belated son.” Gwyn’s voice was full of reprimand, but for once, his son paid him no mind. Ornstein’s gaze was boring holes into anything it was directed to, and the knight seemed ready to start a fight. Guilty as charged, Faraam belatedly noticed he was wearing his suit of armor, helmet under his arm.

“May I inquire on what hath happened, Lord, my father?” Faraam asked, though his eyes were still trained on Ornstein’s.

“It would seem soldiers disagree with my choices.” Gwyn sounded most displeased and Faraam almost laughed; was that why he had called one of his most important generals for? A matter of pride? It would not explain Ornstein’s behavior, however. “Dost thou remember Sir Gough, my son?”

Faraam sputtered; of course he remembered his  _ friend _ , they trained together often enough, all three of them. “Yes, father.”

“He hath been blinded, my Lord.” Ornstein’s chilling voice reached him and, for a moment, Faraam couldn't process what he had said. “By soldiers of the army, no less.”

“Whom?” Still in shock, but slowly coming to, the Prince finally understood Ornstein’s terrifying rage.

“We know not.” His father remarked with infuriating calm. “But Sir Ornstein shall discover.”

“Then we must leave at once, my knight--” Faraam started, but was interrupted by a shake of Ornstein’s head before Gwyn was speaking again. 

“Thou hast thy duties still, my son. This task is for Sir Ornstein, not thee.” Another reprimand, and Faraam wanted to slice his father’s throat for a brief instant.

“Of course, how foolish of me.” The Prince uttered through gritted teeth.

“Then take thy seat and eat. Good Sir Ornstein shall resolve this matter, as thou most certainly trust’st him to.” The Lord of Sunlight ordered, and both the Prince and the knight were set into motion to do as he had spoken. But before they parted, they silently agreed, through an exchange of looks, to meet later.

Faraam could barely eat through the tension in his body. It seemed to clog his throat and lock his jaw closed. It was borne of anger, the same all-consuming kind that he had seen in Ornstein moments prior. Yet whereas his knight’s anger was quiet and cold, Faraam wanted to scream, shout his grievances to the sky, fight every person standing between him and the ones responsible for the heinous act. He would not, of course, could not, but he wanted to, and so seethed in displeasure. With his father’s heavy gaze upon him, the Prince forced himself to eat through the knot in his throat. He was about to excuse himself when Gwyn sighed, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“I know we have not seen eye to eye as of late, but thou art still my first born.” The Lord of Sunlight said, voice calm and low. “I, too, grieve for Sir Gough. He is my knight, after all. I cannot console him, but thou mayst do so.”

Faraam blinked rapidly in response to his father’s weary tone and kind request. It wasn't like him at all. But he would not complain about good things, especially when they were few and far between. The Prince nodded, slipping out from under Gwyn’s hand and bowing slightly before starting on his way to search for Gough. It was a brisk walk to where they usually trained, but the place was deserted, perhaps as he should have expected. He continued his search through the Cathedral, though Gough, unlike Ornstein, did not have living quarters there. Faraam didn't know if that was because of him being a giant or his own choice; maybe it was both. The Prince did find the archer in the great residence of the royal family, however, being treated by maidens of Gwynevere. At that point, they seemed to have given up on trying to restore the giant’s sight, and instead focused on lessening his pain. Faraam felt anger bubble up inside him again, thinking of what his friend must had gone through. Yet surprise overtook him as a voice he did not expect came from behind the giant’s silhouette.

“I promise thee: I shall find them, Gough.” Ornstein, angry and cold still, sitting on a chair on the other side of the archer. “They shall not live another day.”

“Let thyself not be consumed by vengeance, Sir Ornstein. It will not hesitate to take thee in its claws.” Gough replied to the much smaller man as the maidens stopped what they were doing to bow before Faraam.

“Your Grace? Your Lordship?” Ornstein asked, trying to guess as he rose from the chair to look at the door, gaze softening ever so slightly at what he saw. “My Lord, thou cam’st.”

“I could not simply leave a friend to his suffering.” Faraam said with a strained smile. “I should have known thou would’st feel the same.”

“Mayhap, but I must leave, soon. His Lordship hath given me a task after all.” Ornstein sounded weary, it made Faraam desperately want to comfort him.

“You are both graceful. I thank you for your friendship, know that.” Gough said above them as the maidens scurried off the room, their work finished.

“Thou shalt always have it, Sir Gough.” The Prince replied for the both of them, smiling genuinely for the first time in that day.

“Yes. Always.” Ornstein confirmed before attempting to smile back, only for it to look more like a grimace than anything. Faraam had to hold back laughter as the knight schooled his expression back to cold neutrality.

“You should do His Lordship’s biddings, both of you. Seek’st not to displease him.” The giant said after a moment of silence, prompting Ornstein to nod before putting on his helmet.

“Thou art right, my friend.” The Golden Knight said, voice muffled by the lion visage. “I shall excuse myself, then. Sir Gough, my Lord.” He bowed before striding off, leaving Faraam alone with Gough to watch him as he left.

“His back is stiff as always.” Gough said after a moment, to which Faraam could only make an inquiring noise, confused. “I can hear his steps.”

The Prince blinked owlishly at the giant, surprised at his perception. “Thou art right, of course.”

“It is Sir Ornstein, still, after all.” The giant’s chuckle was a deep, rumbling sound, that nonetheless asked Faraam to join.

“It is.” The Prince was thankful, for a second, that his friend could not see the besotted expression on his face.

“Thou should’st attend to thine own duties as well, Your Grace.” Gough suggested after a moment of quiet.

“But…” Faraam interrupted himself, not wanting to sound as though he pitied the great archer.

“Worriest thou not over me, Your Grace.” The giant said, seeing right through Faraam, as if he still had sight. “I am stronger than thou mayst think.”

“I know thou art.” Faraam said after hesitating. He smiled, even though the other could not see, and patted Gough’s arm before turning to the door. “I shall return, Sir Gough! I am not so easy to be rid of.”

They both laughed as he left, already thinking of the troops he was to inspect. Doing so always reminded him of the day he first fought Ornstein, and the memory brought him comfort. Odd thing, finding peace in a fight, but War was never quite simple, as it would never be. War was not victory or loss, after all, but conflict. What kind of god would he be if his heart didn't beat for his domain?

The barracks looked the same as they always had, and Ornstein surprised himself when he realized he expected it to be different. As if his absence or presence changed something. Maybe it did, and he simply did not notice. As he walked through the rooms and corridors that composed the extensive complex, the Silver Knights stared, blatantly, at him. His old second-in-command had told him he had become something of legendary, of myth among the knights. The Silver Knight who became Golden, the Dragonslayer. Some had even taken to the spear after him. Ornstein pretended not to notice the whispering and awed faces looking at him, but it would take a stronger man to not feel a certain amount of pride in it. Then again, one of those might have been the one to blind Gough, and the very thought hardened Ornstein’s heart. He would have no pity, no mercy when he found the culprits.

He was searching for one officer in specific: a commander, the one who took his squad in his place. Not for any other reason than the fact he knew her, and she knew the Silver Knights better than him. He also trusted her enough to be inclined to believe she would not commit such a crime as to harm a superior officer on purpose. When Ornstein reached the expected room, he was surprised to see her leaving it; he had expected to find a human servant, maybe, or another knight to which he would give a message to relay to her. Of course, as it was, convenience was on his side, and for once he would not complain. He took a moment to take off his helmet before addressing the woman who served as his second-in-command once:

“Commander Elena.” His voice was colder than normal, he knew, but couldn't stop himself.

“General!” She said in surprise as she turned to him, stiffly saluting him as if they knew each other no longer.

“At ease, Commander.” Ornstein said, attempting to sound placating, and probably failing.

“What bringeth thee here, General?” The Commander asked after a moment of hesitation.

“Art thou aware of what hath befallen Sir Gough?” He almost hissed out, angry at the very thought.

“I… have heard, General. Rumors.” She started, cocking her head to the side and not looking him in the eye. “It is true then?”

“He hath been blinded, yes.” Ornstein confirmed, nodding. “Dost thou know who might have been the culprit?”

Elena blinked rapidly, eyes wide as she looked at him again. She immediately raised her hands and shook her hand in denial. “What? General, no, I would not, I…”

“Spare me the platitudes, commander.” He said, fixing her with a cold stare. “I do not accuse thee, or thy men. I wish only to know who hath harmed my friend.”

“I… see. Thou art a different man than I once knew, General.” She said at last, narrowing her eyes. “I have heard… rumors. Whispers. Today, during our practice. But I know not the extent of those as truth.”

He blinked slowly, looking at Elena as though he saw  _ through _ her. Finally, he spoke: “Tell then, of such rumors. I shall yet drag the truth to light.”

Faraam looked over the practicing battalion, analyzing, thinking. There were many soldiers of note, skilled and dedicated, but many more that seemed to not care. Their movements were sloppy, done without attention. Towards those, Faraam felt a growing distaste. What good were soldiers that could not fight? Whatever skill, whatever innate talent they had was squandered in a petty display of disrespect. Not to the Lord of Sunlight, or even their overseeing Captain, but to himself, to War. They seemed to not remember the battles where they lost scores upon scores of soldiers in an attempt to fight the dragons. They seemed to take the war they fought, the endless conflict that had been their entire lives, for granted. It enraged the god, and he wondered how his father could possibly tolerate such pitiful troops.

“Captain.” Faraam said, still looking out at the soldiers. “Art thou not bothered by thy soldiers’ incompetence?”

“Your Grace?” The captain furrowed his eyebrows at the Prince in a puzzled expression. “Most of these men are veterans of many battles against the everlasting dragons.”

“Incompetent nonetheless.” The Prince rebuked, raising an eyebrow as he finally turned to the officer beside him, eyes cold as he stared at the other man.

“My apologies, Your Grace, but…” The man was flustered, looking for a way out. “... I see not thy meaning.”

Faraam rolled his eyes and turned his attention back at the troops. He remembered well when, at another time, but at the same place, Ornstein took up his challenge to fight him. The Prince still had the memory of his nose cracking under the knight’s knuckles, the way he himself had taken victory for granted. In the end, he thought, Ornstein had always had a shard of War within himself. His knight had been a dedicated, fearsome soldier from the very day he was born, Faraam knew; and he knew not as a lover or friend, but as the god of War. Some of the soldiers in the troops he now looked at were the same: born for and from war, determined and skilled.

His eyes fixed on one of the platoon, a young man with brown hair. Neither one of the best, nor one of the worst, but purposefully sloppy, paying little mind to proper technique. He had the talent to be something great, something innate, be reflexes or strength, that gave him an upper hand against his fellow soldiers. He was shorter than Faraam, though not by much, probably coming up to his nose. In another time, maybe the Prince would have given him more attention, a second chance. A friendly encouragement to try harder. But no longer. His was the righteous anger of the disrespected, the forgotten. Faraam didn't want to forgive, especially not someone who seemed to think skill at arms a joke.

Without another word, the Prince descended the stairs leading to the courtyard. He was watched every step of the way as he took great strides through the crowd of Silver Knights. Unlike Ornstein, he didn't wish to test this soldier’s mettle, didn't care enough about him. He wanted proof, and, were he to be honest, a vent for his frustrations. There was the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that his father had sent him there to mock him. Once Faraam reached the man he was looking for and his pair, he stopped, gaze intently searching for something, some sign that told him he was wrong about his previous assessments. He didn't find any.

“Knights.” Faraam said, calm and humorless.

“Your Grace!” Both exclaimed in turn, bowing deeply before him.

“If it is to thine agreement…” He turned to the dark haired knight he had been observing. “... I wish to spar with thee.”

“I-- It would be an honor, Your Grace.” The young knight said, bobbing his head up and down in excited agreement. They all knew what had happened to the last knight the Prince had sparred with.

“Good.” And without another word, Faraam dropped into a ready stance, one he often took against Ornstein when they trained. Though the Golden Knight was still shorter than his current opponent, Faraam was certain that would not be a great issue. The knight hurried to ready himself once he saw the Prince was waiting. There was already a sizable crowd watching them, judging their every step. Faraam barely noticed, already entranced in the fight that hadn't even started properly. His opponent, however, immediately started preening under the attention, trying to get more. The Prince didn't give him a second chance to focus before punching his jaw, with enough force only to bruise.

The knight stepped back, unbalanced, but quickly centered himself, narrowing his eyes. He aimed a fast punch at Faraam’s head, but instead tried to kick him at the last second. The crowd unsettled as it connected with the Prince’s side. The opponents looked at each other, and the knight blinked as the god of War smiled. Ornstein had a tendency to fight dirty, much worse than a feint, and it would take a lot more to surprise him. Faraam waited until the knight made his move - a jab to his neck - to grab his arm and pull him in, knocking him off balance, and within range for a solid knee to the gut. The Prince then twisted the other’s arm around to hold him in place. The knight snarled as he swirled himself free, aiming a low punch with his left hand to Faraam’s abdomen. It hit the god’s arm as he dodged, leaving behind nothing but a red mark. Still with the other’s arm in his grip, the Prince pulled him in and tackled him, taking both to the ground. With the knight pinned under him, Faraam held him down until he gave up. The Prince rose to his feet in one fluid motion, daring with his eyes the other to do the same. When the knight finally stood up, the god cast a cool gaze over the crowd.

“I have seen enough.” Was all he said before making his way through the quickly parting crowd full of confused faces. Inside, the Prince was fuming, but for the first time, he didn't show.

Sunset came, and Faraam brooded. Stewed in his anger, his disappointment. He knew not all were true Dragonslayers, that Ornstein, Gough, and even the human, Havel, were of a kind found few and far between. Still, he assumed, no, demanded, as the god of War, that at least others dedicated themselves. Even if they never achieved true legend, then that they tried, did their best to prove themselves worthy of fighting a War. Because no conflict, no battle could exist by itself. It was simply what arose of two colliding forces, who refused to step aside. War was nothing without warriors, without those who would fight it. And warriors were nothing without the will to fight, and the skill to do so.

The Prince paced the halls in angry steps, startling many a servant who crossed his path. He had no need to assuage his anger, and no wish to do so either. Faraam desired solely for the world to see the truth for what it was: that the feared Silver Knights were stumbling to grasp their weapons. That what was once a skilled and determined legion had become but a shadow of its former self. He wanted all to know of the shame, the indignity, of looking at a warrior and seeing anything but. He wanted to know this slight against him as what he represented would not be tolerated. That his Father demanded more of his soldiers than blind faith and one more body to stand between his Lordship and the dragons.

Dinnertime was nothing more than a distraction, and a barely accepted one. All the pompous members of the court only served to infuriate him further. Most of them had no skill to speak of, no merit, be it of war or anything else. They were there out of luck, out of being the one out of possible hundreds who happened to be a god. A pathetic display of the worst Anor Londo had to offer, in great part. Few were the ones among nobility that earned their title, and many weren't even considered to have a title at all. “Minor”, they would say, a footnote, unimportant. Yet of all of them, the unimportant was the only one who could captivate a Lord. A knight amongst nobles. The sweet irony, and the simple fact that there was no other in that hall who could ever captivate War’s eyes, did not go unnoticed.

Still, the man in question was nowhere to be seen, which led a confused Faraam to ask: “Where is Sir Ornstein?”

“I have not seen him all day. I assumed he was with thee.” Gwynevere seemed happy that he broke the silence, that he was no longer stewing in his own anger.

“Sir Ornstein is fulfilling the task I have given him, I would think.” Gwyn spoke, and his children lowered their heads to listen. “He is faithful, and knoweth his duty. A good knight to have.”

“Indeed.” Faraam answered through gritted teeth. His father thought of Ornstein and his faith as yet another thing to have, another trophy. Unacceptable, in the eyes of the Prince. But he remained quiet, for once.

Ornstein was a chilly presence, he knew. With cold eyes and stiff back, he didn't inspire warmth, despite the red of his hair and gold of his eyes. So it was a surprise to none that the knightess in front of him was almost shivering as he asked her a very simple question: was she the culprit of Sir Gough’s misfortune? As Ornstein did not inspire warmth, he instead, often times, evoked a primal fear, especially on the soldiers under his command. Such it was that lying to him felt dangerous, unacceptable. Even if what he himself said were lies, dropping like snowflakes from his mouth, sweet looking and frigid. It was a matter of self preservation, perhaps, to trust his words.

“I do not intend to cause thee harm.” He told her, hands raised to show the lack of any weapon.

“How can I be sure?” She asked in turn, turning up her nose in an attempt to seem brave.

“You can't.” Ornstein nodded, crossing his arms. “But… I am.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “What about?”

“Thou art guilty as accused.” His eyes were cold and distant; she unnerved him, and he didn't know why. “Prithee, care’st thou not to lie.”

“I am, then.” Her voice shook, but she stood determined. “I cannot change thy… perspective. Can I?”

“I suppose thou canst not.” He blinked slowly. “Canst thou change His Lordship’s?”

“Be not elusive.” The knightess scoffed, looking Ornstein in the eye. “Art thou here to kill the guilty, or not?”

“Hm…” He cocked his head, smirked almost imperceptibly. “I am not.”

Morning was tedious without the prospect of seeing Ornstein outside of his door. His rage still seethed every time he remembered the soldier from the day prior. The arrogance, the negligence. Unacceptable for a knight, yet there he was, among their ranks, as were countless others. What army were they keeping? One unfit for war? Why keep an army at all, then? Faraam almost growled out loud, brushing his hair so aggressively he could feel strands being ripped off his scalp. He was angry, frustrated, and tired. He absolutely did not want to meet his father. He wanted to fight off his bad mood, sweat it out with training. But it was hardly a pleasing prospect without a good sparring partner. And above all else, Faraam was not in the proper state of mind to seek yet another knight for himself. Much less of heart.

He walked down the hallways with heavy steps, unable to fully contain his anger. His father would be waiting for him for breakfast, and would no doubt chastise him for making a scene the previous afternoon. In his father’s eyes, the army was perfect, knights loyal to him with all faith. As if that was enough. Faraam scoffed by himself, standing still before the great doors to the hall where Lord Gwyn would undoubtedly be waiting with a scowl and sermon ready for him. But when the Prince opened them, he found no one. The hall was empty, table set with none to sit by it. Confused, Faraam turned his back to the room, walking through more hallways to the entrance hall. Silver Knights stood guard beside the doors, and they bowed as he approached.

“Lord Gwynsen, Prince of Sunlight!” One of them said. “Wherefore hast thou graced us with thy presence?”

“I am in search of His Lordship, my father.” Faraam tilted his head quizzically. “Would’st thou mayhap know of his whereabouts?”

“His Lordship?” They straightened their backs once more to look him in the eye. “Sir Ornstein requested an audience with him. He brought a knightess with him.”

“A Silver Knight?” Faraam frowned. “My gratitude. Thou art allowed to return to thy duties, now.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

An audience, they said. Requested by Ornstein, accompanied by a Silver Knight. Unless his knight planned on marrying - Faraam almost laughed at the thought, so as not to shiver in something akin to fear -, the only reason he could have to present a knight to Lord Gwyn was to propose another to become part of the small team that made up the Knights of Gwyn. With Gough incapacitated, it wasn't unlikely for Ornstein to be searching for others. But at the same time, his anger ran deeper than Faraam’s ever could, and so did his thirst for revenge. It was unlikely he would stop looking for the culprits until they were found. So a thought crossed the Prince’s mind, and it all seemed to make sense. Ornstein wasn't bringing forward a fiancee or a knight candidate. He had brought the guilty.

The main entrance to the throne room, as Faraam had expected, was closed. Great doors locked shut with standing guards outside. Taking a detour, then, the Prince found one of the many servant passages, almost too small for him, that lead into the place. He shuffled along the tiny passage until he reached a small door, embedded into the wall. Opening it as quietly as could, he stepped into the throne room as Ornstein introduced the knightess; a woman with hair the same color as Faraam’s own, warm brown eyes, and skin as pale as Gwyndolin’s. She looked as if she could be part of the Royal Family herself, most curiously. If the Prince looked with enough attention, he would notice the similarities between her profile and Gwynevere’s. She was an oddity, and Ornstein had realized it, if the way he looked at her was any indication. Gwyn barely noticed his son, sparing nothing more than a glance to him.

“Sir Ornstein, wherefore dost thou bring forth this knight?” Gwyn looked disdainfully at the person in question, almost as if daring her to speak up.

“This Dame hath come forth as the one to have blinded Sir Gough, Your Lordship.” Ornstein seemed… detached. Not horrifically cold, but not in his usual disposition either. Something close to satisfied, Faraam realized, but in a different way than he was used to.

“I see.” Gwyn leaned forward, eyes narrowed to look at the Silver Knight. “And thou hast proof of thy deeds, Knight?”

“I have still the pack of resin used, Your Lordship.” She was clearly nervous, but steady as a rock. Something imbued her with confidence.

“Sir Ornstein, have someone fetch it for us.” The Lord of Sunlight ordered, lacing his fingers together under his chin. “And of thee, Dame. I wish to know of thy motives.”

“Your Lordship.” Ornstein bowed his head before leaving momentarily, amber eyes locking with Faraam, standing by the entrance with crossed arms. The Golden Knight blinked slowly at him in a silent greeting he couldn't reciprocate.

“I…” At Ornstein’s departure, the other knight seemed to lose some of her stability, but quickly regained some measure of composure. “I am a dragonslayer archer. I have fought in this war my entire life. Yet my commander was a giant! A construction brute!”

“And such was enough to spurn thee into an act of… revenge?” Gwyn asked, seeming genuinely curious, but Faraam knew his father well. The curiosity hid a veneer of disdain.

“No!” The knight bared her teeth, eyes reddening. “Yes. Mayhap… Know’st thou not already?”

Gwyn did not deign her with a spoken answer, instead raising a single brow. She took deep, ragged breaths through her teeth. The silence was drawn out and heavy, uncomfortable even for Faraam, who wasn't involved in the trial. Perhaps mercifully, Ornstein returned, carrying in his hands a bag of resin, clearly empty. Wordlessly, he walked up to the Lord of Sunlight and gave it to him. Upon further inspection of the object, Gwyn spoke up.

“Sir Ornstein, was this found among this knight’s belongings?”

“Yes, Your Lordship.” Ornstein was calm, as if the tense atmosphere around him meant nothing. Faraam almost envied him.

“And thou hast reason to believe it was hers the resin used against Sir Gough?” Gwyn’s curiosity seemed distant, detached, as if his questioning couldn't decide whether someone lived or died.

“Archers do not normally employ resin.” Ornstein explained in a monotone, blinking slowly. “Their greatbows and miracles are thought to suffice instead.”

“I see.” The Lord of Sunlight nodded, shaking the bag in his hand for a brief moment. “Very well. Then, Dame, speak’st thy motive, that I may judge thee.”

“I am thine own child! Sister to the Prince of Sunlight!” She shouted, and Faraam jumped in the spot. He should have expected it, on hindsight, but it still took him by surprise. He looked at Ornstein, and noticed a miniscule smile on his lips. “Hast thou no compassion? Thou’st forgotten me from birth! I fought in thine army hoping to be seen, and instead thou’st chosen a  _ giant _ as thy knight!” Her anger broke through her voice and shone in her eyes, together with tears that refused to spill. “I could not accept it. I  _ shall _ not.”

“Thou art no child of mine.” Gwyn seemed… bored. Disinterested, as if it weren't his own kin in trial before him. Faraam looked at him, flabbergasted. “I do not recognize thee, thus thou art not mine. It is a simple matter.”

“But…” The knightess seemed shocked, even Ornstein seemed surprised, in his own, subtle way.

“No.” The Lord of Sunlight ended the argument before it started. “Thy fate is decided. Thou art exiled from Anor Londo. Leave’st thou this city, for thou art to be seen here no longer. I trust thou shalt leave without further inconvenience?”

Finally, the tears burst out, pouring as the Silver Knight, head held tall, stormed out of the room without any further words. Faraam, who was still shocked at her being his  _ sister _ , was only further confused by her silence, her obedience. What reason had she not to beg for mercy? To stay in the city of gods? Where else would she live? Amongst humans? It left him reeling, until his father spoke up once more, after the great doors had closed again.

“Blade!” He called, and a small figure, human, stepped out of the throne’s shadows. “Thou art to assure she leaveth not the city alive.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.” The human swiftly made her way to the secret entrance Faraam had used, but before she could properly leave the room, Gwyn stopped her.

“Afore thou follow’st through thy duties,” Gwyn said, smiling, gesturing at the short redhead beside him, “may I introduce thee to thy Captain, Sir Ornstein, the Dragon Slayer. Sir Ornstein, Dame Ciaran, my hidden Blade.” 

“Sir Ornstein. An honor to have met thee.” The small knight said, brief, before disappearing into the passage.

Ornstein, blinking owlishly, quietly asked: “‘Captain’, Your Lordship?”

“Yes.” The Lord of Sunlight seemed supremely pleased with himself. “I hereby grant thee the title of Captain of the Knights of Gwyn, Sir Gough and Dame Ciaran.”

“I…” For once, Ornstein seemed stunned, speechless. “It is an honor, Your Lordship.” He settled for saying, bowing deeply.

“As I believed it to be. Thou mayst leave now.” The redhead nodded at the words, heading to the great doors, Faraam following quickly behind him. “Gwynsen, halt!”

The Prince took a deep breath before turning around, ready for another scolding, another argument, another fight. “Yes, Lord, my father?”

Gwyn waited until the doors were closed again before he spoke. His words, though seemingly but a lesson of rulership, were said with such cold that they let a shiver down his son’s spine. “Remember’st thou this: such is the fate of traitors. To die forgotten.”


End file.
